Five Days Later
by Bemused Celery
Summary: All you need is love to heal a broken heart... but sometimes, patience is a good nurse.


"What can we possibly do with her that could help, Mr Price."

The lady's rhetorical question hung like a poison in the air. The little girl lay in her decrepit wooden bed, in the dark, staring unblinking at the door; the adults in the room next door must have supposed their voices wouldn't carry. But this was a filthy, old building. Of course she could hear every word.

"Really, she's damaged beyond repair, I'd be surprised if she ever managed to form even a half-decent relationship with another human; living and studying here with the other children is beyond question."

A crack of thunder broke through the darkness for a moment, giving the child a rare, unwanted view of the box she was to call her bedroom, for now. It was as drained of colour as she felt right at this moment. There were no warm pink walls, decorated cabinets on which some loving hands had placed smiling photos of her to remind her that she was cherished and wanted. The drab wallpapers reflected the rain spatter on the large glass windows behind her; like tears, they stained the walls intangibly, as if mocking her. She could turn away and try not to look if she wanted, but it would find her, and it would make her relive those minutes over and over again. If not in the deep caged confines her mind, then here, like this - it seemed as if the whole building, the weather, Fate itself were conspiring against her.

She didn't blink. A thin vein of moisture made passage from her left eye, immediately quelled in the spongy pillow without a chance to register with the child. She stared silently at the door, refusing to blink.

"It's been five days and she has refused to eat, refused to acknowledge any of the other people here, even the other children her age, it's as though she's just not even interested."

Five days since what?, she thought for a moment. An involuntary shiver crawled up her little frame, and she clutched her comforter and the scratchy blanket further up over herself. It wasn't much, but at least it afforded some protection. And if she concentrated really hard, and held the comforter just so, it was almost as though her mum was- ...

"Margaret, the police have explained to you what she has been through." The man - she imagined him, with his unobtrusive moustache and gentle manner, and his deep, soft voice - it sounded so - kind. Another shiver trembled her cot, and she pulled the comforter to her chest, curling up. She missed her father.

"She needs time and patience, that is all." A chair leg seemed to scrape backwards and the sound of heels clacking against the wooden floor was accompanied by a sigh, a huff, and the tinkling of glass as the woman must have poured a drink. "I won't say love," the man continued, "I fear there are few in this place who can give her that. You especially."

Another annoyed sigh.

"But love, and patience, are not dissimilar. And I know that you have plenty of that. This little girl isn't causing anyone any harm, after all. Give her a chance, Margaret, I implore you. Give her the chance to see that her life doesn't end her in this tragedy."

"Why don't you take her, then, Timothy?" The little girl heard a tone of pleading in the woman's voice, or so she thought.

"She needs laughter and other children, and other women, around her. I don't have all of that, only my two boys and I honest to God don't know how they survive sometimes with only me. She needs constant faces around her if she is going to get better, or if she is ever going to get a chance to get better at least."

The little girl chewed her lip without thought and pulled the blanket a bit closer. Am I ill?, she wondered.

"I'll send those two frequently though. They have big hearts to put up with a father like me, and plenty of room to pull her out of her grief eventually with their innocent talk. If Rosie were alive there would be no question and she would be living with us in a heartbeat, but-" the man paused. He seemed to swallow before continuing. "She won't be a burden beyond needing patience and time. We will - the boys and I will spend weekends with her if it gets like that, Eddie and Simon will enjoy having a little sister around. But it won't get to that. She will open up. A ten-year-old who can stab a grown male intruder in the eye has a lot more strength of character than the norm, don't you think?"

She didn't realize she had turned fully to face the door through which the voices wafted softly. Her eyes closed as she replayed the words. Sister. Time. Play. Strength. They seemed to be good words. Nice and warm. They seemed to wrap around her and when she slowly turned her head back toward the window, the thunder didn't ... feel so loud. Her eyelids closed, and she imagined Uncle Timmy and Eddie and Simon and her mother and father forming a protective circle around the bed. A sigh escaped her. She felt like it was her first breath in...such a long time. The comforter brushed her tear-striken cheeks as she slept, and the storm moved on, defeated, waiting for another day, to claim her.


End file.
